Hellhounds and Brothers
by LadyArcherfan
Summary: Facing that hellhound dug up some old memories that tangle with the trials.


**Title:** "Hellhounds and Brothers"  
**Author:** LadyArcherfan  
**Characters:** Sam and Dean  
**Genre:** Gen, Hurt/Comfort  
**Rating:** PG-13 for some language  
**Word Count:** 2,354  
**Spoilers:** Tag to 8.14, so spoilers for that episode.  
**Warnings:** None  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but my own imagination, but the muse does own me.  
**Summary:** Facing that hellhound dug up some old memories that tangle with the trials.

* * *

There was a moment, less than a heartbeat, after those claws hit him, where Dean lost all rational thought. He was no longer in the Cassidy's barn; he was in that house in Indiana. He could hear Lilith laughing, hear Sam shouting. He could hear himself screaming. Pain like nothing he had known ripping down his limbs, across his back, digging into his chest, blood flowing hot across his skin…

And then he hit the floor with a thud, and pushed the memories away. His hand was wet with blood from his side, and the hellhound's breath, stinking of sulfur, stirred up dirt and made his jacket flutter. Shock, pain and pure fear froze him. Weaponless, unable to see the target, what the hell was he going to do? Take the damn thing down with his teeth?

If that's what it took, then what the hell. He set his jaw and glared back at the monster.

A shotgun blasted and the hellhound wailed and leapt away as black blood flew. Sam appeared in the doorway, chambering another round, eyes blazing with intensity behind the glasses. He spotted the knife Dean had lost and dove for it. The hellhound sprang back into action and smashed Sam to the ground, teeth snapping.

Dean felt a surge of panic and fear that rivaled the intensity from the fatal attack that had had taken him to Hell. No, Sam could not go through this, he wouldn't let it happen, not to Sam, not on his watch –

And then Sam hand the knife in his hand, slashing across the invisible hound's throat and down the chest and gut, black gore splashing down on him. Dean's chest constricted even as the pain in his side flared. Sam was safe, the hellhound was dead. But he was far from safe, if the trials were going to be as shitty as he knew they would be. And he just couldn't let that happen.

Gasping, Sam glanced over at him, concern and relief washing over his features as he met his brother's gaze. But Dean just groaned and collapsed back to the floor, struggling against the pain and injustice of it all.

*

_"It's true, he's had worse."_

There were a number of wounds that Dean had sustained over the years that trumped the admittedly impressive gouges he now sported across his ribs. But there wasn't much that overshadowed the first time Dean had been at the mercy of one of those demonic attack dogs. And Sam couldn't quite keep those memories at bay.

They had left Ellie and the Cassidy's behind several hours ago, and were at some back road motel. Sam had managed to convince Dean let him drive for a change; despite still feeling woozy from the aftershocks of the spell, he could at least walk upright. The same couldn't be said of Dean.

After the adrenaline had worn off and there was no one but Sam to posture for, Dean's façade had slipped a little. Shoulders hunched, arm wrapped protectively around his middle and muscles shivering in random spasms, he was obviously hurting more than he would ever admit out loud. But he let Sam drive, which was an indicator enough.

Sam doused the wounds in peroxide – again – and rinsed everything with holy water to be on the safe side before going at the stitches. By the time he had finished, Dean had managed to gain some semblance of control again. But his jaw was set, eyes shuttered. Sam knew he was still pissed about the trials, conflicted about what Sam had said, and now worried about whatever whammy the spell had hit him with. He could see that just in Dean's posture, in his refusal to talk about it at all.

But there was something else, an older hurt, one that was rearing its ugly head after years of being ignored. And Sam was pretty sure he knew exactly which one it was. Because it was clawing at his brain as well.

"I'm taking a shower," Sam said as he tossed a wad of bloodied gauze into the garbage.

"Yeah, go ahead," Dean replied. He swallowed the antibiotic and pain killers he'd fished from the first aid kit, grabbed a beer, and flipped on the TV on the way back to his bed.

"You're not going to claim oldest rights to the first shower?" Sam asked, brows quirking up in concern.

Dean didn't turn from the TV. "I'll shower in the morning. Let the stitches set."

"If you say so, House."

"Hey, I'm not the one covered in hellhound blood."

"No, just your own."

"Ellie got most of it off. You stink. Go."

Sam huffed a halfhearted laugh, and complied. Truth be told, the nasty black gore did reek.

By the time he got out of the shower, Dean had settled onto his bed, still fully clothed but without his boots; the TV was, the volume all but muted. The beer was only half gone, which was somewhat surprising.

"I left some hot water for you," he said, tossing his dirty clothes on top of his duffel, too tired suddenly to deal with them.

"I'm good," Dean replied, flicking a quick glance at Sam. "You have something you wanna watch on TV?"

"Not really. Wanted to sleep, actually. You finish whatever you started, the volume's low enough."

"Okay."

With a soft sigh, Sam collapsed onto his own bed, not bothering with the covers. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

*

He woke to the taste of blood, screams filling his ears, the paralysis of pain and fear locking his muscles. Eyes finally fluttered open, chest heaving with wild breaths, and he finally recognized where and when he was. Hotel room. 2013. Not Indiana, 2008.

He wasn't pinned to the wall by demonic power. Dean was alive, asleep, and not being ripped apart by hellhounds. Sam took a deep breath and relaxed. The dull throb of a headache lingered behind his temples, and his body entire body ached. It was the usual after a hunt feeling, with an extra edge.

The room was dark; Dean must have shut off the TV or it had gone off on its own. He turned to look across the room, just in time to see Dean twist in his sleep, a sound too close to a whimper for comfort breaking from his throat.

With a grunt as bruises and sore muscles pulled, Sam sat up. "Dean. Wake up," he said, but didn't make a move to get closer. He'd learned a long time ago that touching a nightmare gripped Dean was the worst move to make. Pride got bruised, as did bodies, because fists tended fly before awareness caught up with instinct.

There was no response to his voice; Dean just twisted further into the tangle of comforter and sheets that he had managed to envelop himself in. Sam flicked on a lamp and crossed the short distances between the beds. A fine sheen of sweat showed across Dean's face and neck, and Sam had a quick flash of worry.

Fever? Did hellhound claws carry some sort of supernatural germ that even peroxide, antibiotics, and holy water wouldn't take care of? As quickly as the thought occurred to him, he pushed it away. It was just a nightmare; between the cleaning Ellie had given the wound and his own treatment, there wasn't much that would have gotten left behind. And there had been more than enough trauma to kick start some bad dreams.

"Dean, come on man, wake up," Sam said, pitching his voice so it would hopefully cut through the nightmare but would still be soothing.

Dean's body twitched once, a full body spasm, and suddenly he sat up with a strangled cry.

Sam let out a quiet sigh of relief. "Dean? You with me?"

He didn't answer immediately, eyes still unfocused under fast blinking lids. But then he took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face. "Dammit, Sam. That bitch should have been mine." He pulled himself out of the blankets and put his feet on the floor, body still hunched protectively around his sore side.

"What?"

"The hellhound, Sam," he snapped, as if Sam was being slow on purpose. "I should have gutted the damn thing."

Sam growled under his breath and threw his hands into the air in frustration. "Dean, we went over this. I passed the test. I'm doing the trials."

"Screw the trials," Dean snapped. "I've wanted to gut one of those hell bitches ever since they gutted me."

"And you think I haven't wanted the same thing?" Sam demanded. "Damn it, Dean, I watch you get ripped to shreds. Watched that hellhound drag your soul to Hell. And you didn't think for a second that maybe I wanted to gank one of them for that? Never considered it?"

Dean blinked up at him in surprise.

"Do you know how terrifying it was seeing you tonight," Sam continued, voice rising, body thrumming with pent up emotion, "on the ground, bleeding, with a hellhound over you? All I could see was you getting ripped apart, and Lilith laughing as it happened, and me pinned like a friggin' bug to the wall. And then I realized I wasn't going to let that happen again. So, yeah, I killed the damn thing and got covered in the blood. I passed the test. But, honestly, that was the furthest thing from my mind at that moment." He turned away and paced to the bathroom door and back, running a hand through sleep tangled hair.

Dean stood, scrubbing his hand over his face again, brows pinched together. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

"For what?" he asked as he turned.

"For, you know…" Dean gestured to the empty space between them, as if the words still hung there. "I sorta forgot that you woulda had a grudge against those bitches, too. But I just need you safe, and trust me, personal experience, they're nasty. And I was just pissed that…" he hesitated and then plunged on, "that you got way too close to getting ripped up, okay?"

Sam shook his head and laughed a little in disbelief. "Dean, when have you ever not kept me safe? Even when I couldn't manage it myself?"

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but Sam help up a hand and said, "Say Cold Oak, and I'll throw a shoe at you or something."

"A shoe?" Dean's face relaxed into a grin.

"It was the first thing I thought of."

The grin faded as Dean shook his head. "But you died, Sammy. How the hell is that keeping you safe?"

"You got me back."

"Yeah, and then went to Downstairs, leaving you with Ruby to get hopped up on demon blood-"

"But you came back, and helped me, and got me straightened out. You didn't give up on me, even after everything. The demon blood, the Apocalypse, soulless me, Lucifer, everything. Whatever this crappy life threw us, whatever mistakes I made, you pulled me out of it. Every time. Even if I didn't deserve it."

Dean huffed and shook his head slightly in disbelief.

Sam took a few steps forward and lifted a hand as if he was going to grip Dean's shoulder, but stopped. "Dean, I asked you earlier to believe in me. But I need you - _you_ need _you_ - believe in yourself. Because you've managed to do a damn good job at keeping me safe and dealing with this life, and not believing that you were anything more than a grunt who just had to keep me from scraping my knees. You'll be…" Sam flapped a hand and flailed a moment for the appropriate comparison, "be like friggin' Batman if you actually move past that."

"What are you talking about, bitch? I'm already Batman." The grin was on his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. But he looked thoughtful, softer and more considering than before.

Sam smiled. "Whatever, jerk. Just don't think I'm Robin."

"Nah, you're more like Alfred. You fold the laundry and everything."

"Dude, that's because you managed to turn all my socks and underwear pink the one time you said you'd do the laundry. None of your stuff, just mine."

Dean grinned. "Ah, good times."

They both relaxed into the easy banter, something that had been missing, and only recently found again. It felt good, right.

Sam finally just shook his head and gestured to Dean's side. "Let me check that, make sure you didn't pop any stitches."

Dean rolled his eyes and pulled up his t-shirt anyway. "See? Alfred. Patching up Batman and everything."

In retaliation, Sam ripped the tape off instead of easing it away. When Dean yelped, he prodded at the tender ribs harder than necessary.

"Damn it, Sammy, have some compassion," De growled.

Sam just smirked but improved his bedside manner. Everything looked fine. There was some mild swelling, and a little bit if blood yet, but no signs of infection, and no torn stitches. "Well, you're fine. Let's get a couple hours of shut eye yet before the sun comes up."

"Then back to the Batcave!" Dean declared and he flopped onto his bed.

"In the Batmobile," Sam agreed, burrowing into the pillow.

"Damn straight, my baby _is_ the Babmobile."

Silence fell in the small room as the brothers drifted towards sleep once more. Just before he drifted off, Sam mumbled, "Dean, just remember…"

"Go to sleep, Sam," was the gravely reply. After a beat he added, "You shoulda been a motivational speaker instead of a lawyer."

"Thought I was Alfred."

"He gave all sorts of speeches… Sleep, Sam. I thought that was the plan."

Sam just grinned and rolled over. They were going to get hit with all sorts of shit before this thing was over, there was no question. But at the very least, he thought Dean was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. And that was the most important thing for Sam. Anything else, they could deal with. Just like they always did.


End file.
